


The Avalon Project

by elviaprose



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviaprose/pseuds/elviaprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake has been cryogenically frozen for seven years.  He wakes up to a different world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Avalon Project

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/gifts).



> Note 1: Written for a christmas zine for aralias.
> 
> Note 2: In the process of writing this fic, I ended up reading up a little on King Arthur. One article told me that: “In Historia Regum Britanniae XI.2 (c. 1138) he [Geoffrey of Monmoth] asserted that Arthur 'was mortally wounded' at Camlann, but was then 'carried off to the Isle of Avalon (insulam Auallonis), so that his wounds might be attended to'.” Our helpful compiler of Arthuriana goes on to explain that “in this ambiguous statement we can probably see Geoffrey's attempt to reconcile tales in which Arthur died at Camlann (Arthur is 'mortally wounded') with the belief that Arthur still lived (his wounds would be attended to in Geoffrey's Avalon), and thus satisfy all his possible audiences.” I don’t really aim to satisfy all possible audiences, but I’ve attempted a similar trick. Hence the title, which has nothing to do with the the character Avalon.

Blake had become accustomed to feeling disorientation upon waking—a side effect of the memory wipe. It therefore took him a moment to realize his current state of confusion went beyond the usual. This narrow white bed, this square white room—he hadn’t seen any of it before. As far as he remembered. Alarm was just starting to cut through his fogged thoughts when the door panel slid open and Vila walked in, pushing a laden cart. Vila? He’d last seen Vila years ago, on the Liberator—or no. Not quite right. Not quite…

“Blake at last!” Vila’s hair was thinner, his face more lined, but he seemed in good enough spirits. Blake relaxed back onto his pillow. If Vila wasn’t worried, he probably needn’t be. Although--

“Avon.” Blake asked. “Where is he? And where am I? This isn’t my base.”

“After Avon shot you….You do remember that, don’t you? They say there can be a bit of amnesia.”

“Yes,” Blake said, as the memory came back to him. “Yes…I do remember.” His fists clenched on the bedclothes as he tried to figure out what he felt. Anger? Regret? Love, perhaps? There had been some of that. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. It was too much to sort through. 

“Go on, Vila. What happened then?”

“Well, after Avon shot you, it turned out that there was a spy on your base, see, a woman called Arlen …”

He lost the thread of Vila’s story. Perhaps he should have got his thoughts in order before asking Vila to begin. Perhaps he should ask him to stop now…

“…So we froze your body—but we couldn’t figure out how to put you back together right—a sight harder than taking you apart, but isn’t it always? So we waited. It’s been seven years. Vizzies.” Vila gestured to the cart. “Always liked history, didn’t you Blake? A nice drink or two—or three—and some chocopopernuts, and we’ll catch you up on the years you missed out…” 

Blake reeled. Seven years. It had been seven years. 

“…We won, Blake. Avon, well—the Federation didn’t know what’d hit it. If you ever wondered, Blake, ‘now what if old Avon decided he wanted to bring it all down?’ Well, I’d say it was a pity you didn’t see it, but it isn’t. A terror, he was. In any case, inauguration ‘cast’s up first. Dayna Mellanby—know the name? She was with me and Avon, before. She’s President now. Servalan killed her father, and she killed Servalan, then took her job. She’s the vengeful type, is our Dayna—good at blowing things up, too, when she’s not running the galaxy. All for freedom and equality, she is, mostly, except where it comes to me and whoever’s on her bad side—she’s disposed to like you, but I’d still be careful, between you and me…”

Blake drifted out again. He should feel glad the Federation was gone, but it seemed so unreal. He wondered though, since it was real, no matter how it felt, what he would do with himself now.

“… Cryogenics and med development got just about everything, and that was down to her, partly. It’s a genuine wonder what the right money in the right places can do. If you ask me, the right place for credits is my bank account—but you’re a good enough cause, in the end.” He smiled at Blake. “Same old Blake, and just about as good as new,” he added, patting Blake’s hand. 

“And Avon, is he—” Blake made himself ask.

“Oh, didn’t I say? Still kicking.” No, he hadn’t. That wouldn’t have drifted past him. Blake rubbed a hand over his face. He needed time to think. 

“Vila, do you think you could leave me for a while?”

*** 

Blake opened his eyes. He wasn’t asleep, just brooding.

“How do you feel?” Deva asked from the doorway, a nervous smile on his face.

“Physically, I’ve nothing to complain about—”

“That makes one of us,” Deva rubbed at his shoulder. “You haven’t been getting any older, but I haven’t been getting any younger.” 

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Blake told him. 

“It never is with you.” Deva let out a theatrical sigh. “I imagine you’re wondering what you’ll do with yourself.”

“I’ve no idea what I could do.”

“Don’t pity yourself. Living a quiet life is difficult to manage for the likes of us,” Deva said. “You won’t have to unless you want to, and then even if you did, I doubt your Avon would let you. I don’t see much of him these days, but back when there was still a revolution to win, he didn’t rest a moment. And even now, I’m sure it’s much the same.”

“Didn’t he?” Blake asked, bemused. 

***

By the time Tarrant arrived to see him, Blake’s spirits had lifted considerably. Vila had worked him through the viztapes, then plied him with vitazade and a stream of stories—some doubtless exaggerated. He’d lingered with particular enthusiasm over Avon’s second try at defrauding the Federation Banking System, this time in the service of the revolution.

Strange, he mused, looking at Tarrant. Tarrant had been a much younger man when he’d last seen him. Now they were both men in their thirties--to the casual eye, contemporaries. 

Tarrant sat in the chair by his bedside, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Blake,” he said, extending his hand for a handshake. Blake’s position on the bed made the gesture a little awkward, and Tarrant flashed his teeth. “I’m aware our first meeting wasn’t fortuitous, but that’s years in the past for me. What do you say we forget all of that?”

Blake thought the offer surprisingly generous, intriguingly at odds with Tarrant’s manner. While he was searching for the right reply, Tarrant spoke again.

“I admit, I was angry about your test, but that was just life in the Federation. I came to make sure you weren’t still living there.” 

That, Blake understood perfectly. What he didn’t know was whether he could honestly tell Tarrant he wasn’t. “Help catch me up then,” he said, smiling. “Tell me, what do you do now, Tarrant?” 

After an enjoyable hour and a half, during which he’d discovered that Tarrant was a bit of a braggart, but an adept raconteur, Tarrant strolled out the door. 

Tarrant wasn’t the sort of man you asked to stay a little longer, and he didn’t, but alone, Blake’s mood plummeted shockingly. Well, it would take time to get used to things as they now were, Blake told himself. 

***

“Have the others finished with you? I haven’t the patience to fill you in on all of the details myself, Blake. That I leave to Vila, but I thought, I’d—” Avon said, striding into the room. His eyes met Blake’s mid sentence, and he stopped. Just stopped and looked. 

Blake looked, too. Avon had gone gray at the temples, and he looked at least ten years older. 

“I’ve had plenty of company,” Blake said.

“Ah,” Avon said shortly. He rubbed one hand against the other, a familiar habit, one Blake hadn’t seen in—well, it must have been ten years, which is what it felt like, although Blake had only been awake—alive?—for two of them. “Well, what now?” Avon said, and Blake wondered whether he was talking to himself or to Blake. 

“What's your version of what you've been doing all this time, Avon? I'd like to hear it." He was surprised at how angry he sounded, since looking at Avon made his chest loosen with relief. A contradiction. He was tired of contradictions, complications—and maybe that why he was angry. Had there ever been a time when Avon wasn’t giving with one hand and taking away with the other? That was certainly what he expected now—some denial, some evasion. 

Avon raised his eyebrows, paused. Then his mouth curved up a little—almost a smile. 

"Well, now, Blake, I was waiting for you," he said.


End file.
